


Bunkmates

by leiascully



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Infertility, There's Only One Hotel Room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-08-22 09:53:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16595624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: There's only one hotel room, and it's got a special surprise.





	Bunkmates

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: Early S7ish  
> A/N: A bunk beds tumblr account followed me and this happened.

“We only got one room left,” says the clerk at the counter, comfortable in her swivel chair. She twists back and forth gently as she looks at them, wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with the mascot of the local state university branch, the kind of obscure campus everyone remembers only after snapping their fingers and shaking their heads.

Scully glances at Mulder. He looks back, implacable to everyone but her. But she can see the amusement in his eyes, the lift of his eyebrow measured in angstroms. Well, they shared a room in Kansas. They can share again. At this point, the distinction between them seems artificial. They’ve napped together on planes and in cars, closer quarters than a single motel room. They’ve been trapped together in the belly of a fungus and huddled for warmth on a ship full of ghosts. They’ll manage to negotiate a single bed. Besides, this is the only place in town with any vacancies at all. There’s some kind of agricultural event and the whole town is buzzing with farm types.

“We’ll take it,” she says sliding the Bureau’s credit card over the counter. 

“Oh, it’s kind of a themed room?” the clerk says. She looks like she’s enjoying herself. She probably doesn’t check in too many out-of-towners in Armani suits. Scully knows they look stiff and ridiculous compared to all the people in Carhartt jackets and overalls. She tries to imagine Mulder in a worn, sweat-stained baseball cap. Somehow it’s a more extreme possibility than a lot of the things she’s seen. Even after having seen him in the crisp Yankees cap that covered his scar, it's a stretch. Mulder has not grown into the kind of man who wears baseball caps unselfconsciously, but he does look effortless in tailored wool.

“A themed room?” Mulder asks.

“Yeah,” the clerk says, swiping the card. “I don’t want to spoil the surprise.”

Scully smiles tightly. It’s probably what passes for a honeymoon suite in this place, a heart-shaped bed and lurid red wallpaper. If she wakes up with her feet tangled in Mulder’s calves at the point of the heart, at least he won’t be sharing her pillow. The clerk passes back the card along with the receipt and two keys. She winks.

“Y’all enjoy your stay,” she says. “We got a continental breakfast right here in the lobby starting at 5:30, everything baked right here in town. Might even have some eggs if Bobby’s hens get inspired.”

“Thank you,” Scully says, sounding uncomfortable even to herself. 

The room is at the end of the row, at least: in Scully’s experience, fewer neighbors begets a better motel stay. The number on the door is carved into a woodsy plaque. Whoever owns this place does take pride in it. Mulder opens the door, stares into the room, and pulls it shut again. He looks at her, eyes dancing.

“Okay,” he says. “Guess the theme.”

“Honeymoon suite,” she says wearily. 

“Now I know where your head’s at,” he teases, looking her up and down. They’ve been dancing closer and closer to each other lately. “But no. At least, I don’t think so.”

“Mulder, I’m tired,” she says, and pushes open the door.

Bunk beds. The room has bunk beds. It’s clearly designed for parents who want their kids close, but not in the same room. There’s an adjoining door in the wall that’s she’s going to make sure is very securely locked, and a set of sturdy beds on the opposite side of the room. The wall behind them is painted in something approaching a nautical scene: portholes and rivets. It’s ironic in this decisively landlocked town. The bottom bunk is slightly wider than the top one, so that the ladder slants up instead of being a straight climb. The covers are shades of blue and white. The pillowcases have waves on them. There are cartoon fish stuck to the mirror.

Scully closes the door. Mulder is trying not to laugh. She shakes her head, opens the door, and hauls her suitcase into the room. 

“I call bottom,” Mulder says, easing past her and sprawling on the wide lower bunk. 

“I want the bottom,” Scully says.

“Too late, I called dibs,” Mulder tells her. “It’s actually pretty comfortable.”

“You’re tall,” she says. “You should take the top.”

“Because I’m accustomed to the rareified air at such altitudes?” he scoffs. “You should take the top. That ladder’s not scaled for my build.”

“I thought you had boyish agility,” Scully says.

“That only applies to trees, not ladders,” Mulder tells her.

“Thanks for clarifying,” she says, hands on her hips as she surveys the ladder.

“Buy me dinner and I may let you share my bunk,” he says, patting the mattress next to him. She remembers their few days of playacting in the suburbs, their ersatz marriage. 

“That’s a full bed at best,” she says. “Close quarters.”

“I don’t mind,” he tells her.

“The Bureau’s buying us dinner,” she reminds him. “So unless you’re willing to share that bed with Skinner, you might be out of luck.”

“Romance is dead,” he says solemnly.

She thinks of the question she wants to ask him. Is it better or worse that he can’t take things seriously? Is it better or worse that he’s so much more than her closest friend? Is it better or worse that it's now, after all they've been through? He must see some change in her face, because he scrambles up.

“Just kidding, Scully,” he says. “I’ll take the top if that’s what you want.”

“It’s okay,” she says. “If you’re that afraid of heights, Mulder, all you have to do is tell me.”

“As a psychologist, I recognize and do not fall prey to your baiting,” he says. 

“If we find a place with pie, I’ll buy you a slice of pie for the bottom bunk,” she tells him. 

“Coconut cream?” he asks, sauntering up to her. 

“I can’t guarantee any particular flavor at this time,” she says, gazing up at him. Maybe she’ll buy him pie and then let him crawl into bed next to her. Mulder, in these situations, tries to be a gentlemen, but his protective instincts or some deeper yearning overwhelm his conscious carefulness. She’s sure if she allows it, she’ll wake up with his arm thrown over her, his body pressed snugly against hers. Maybe tonight is the night she lets that happen, instead of staring up into the darkness wondering what would happen if she let him in.

“If there’s no pie, I’ll let you wrestle me for it,” he offers. “Or maybe we’ll both learn a lesson about the importance of sharing.”

“We’ll see,” she says, “but I have faith in pie.”

“Let’s see if your faith pays off,” he says, opening the door. “Otherwise, you’ll be enjoying the view from the top deck.”

(There is pie, of course. There’s always pie. Scully’s faith is redeemed and Mulder can’t even pretend to sulk as he savors every mouthful and she thinks about kissing the taste of whipped cream - the real stuff, made every morning in the restaurant’s kitchen by the proud eight-year-old child of the owners - off his lips. He buys a half-pie to go, which earns him grins from the cashiers and the locals despite their out-of-place uniforms. “Midnight snack,” he explains to Scully, and she smiles at him. There is something pure about this moment: his pleasure, the crowd’s approval, her vicarious enjoyment of the pie. He will try to tempt her with it later, hoping to share the experience, because Mulder is generous when it comes to joy. She thinks she’ll indulge. They haven't really celebrated his deliverance from his own beautiful and overclocked mind, yet. She couldn't toast his safe return when it had meant Diana's death, despite it all. Pie at midnight seems a worthy feast.)

It’s not that strange to go through her getting-ready-for-bed routines with Mulder in the room. How many times has she showered while he leaned against the door and talked to her about the case? Mulder’s idea of personal space is liminal. She comes out in her pajamas, toweling her hair, and he’s slouching on the bottom bunk of the ridiculous bed, leaning back on his elbows like Tiger Beat is about to take his photograph. He’s in his suit trousers and his undershirt and his hair is ruffled. Her heart thuds and then subsides. She’s lived with Mulder-related arrhythmia for years; it’s a chronic condition with periodic flare-ups, like now, when he’s lounging among her covers.

“That’s my bed,” she says. “I bought you pie for it fair and square.” 

“Just enjoying it while I can,” he says. “There’s not a lot of seating in here.”

It’s true. There are a couple of chairs, but they’re decisively child-sized. The last time she remembers trying to sit in a chair like that was with Emily. The floor was more comfortable then. 

“It’s your turn for the shower,” she tells him, and bundles herself into the covers as he disappears into the bathroom. She wonders if he brought pajamas on this trip. They travel often enough that she always keeps a bag packed, but she’s known Mulder to have to sleep in his boxers more than once, despite their poor track record regarding hotels and fires, floods, and other acts of God. She listens to the sound of the shower and reaches for a book. She’s read the casefile enough at this point. Sometimes changing perspectives helps her mind put things together in the background. A biography of Eleanor Roosevelt is refreshingly different from casefiles or JAMA back issues. She curls up with her book, stacking the pillows under her head, leaning out of the shadow of the top bunk. The shower is white noise in the background, soothing and familiar.

The water shuts off and a few minutes later, Mulder emerges in a cloud of steam and sandalwood. He did bring his pajama pants, but he’s not wearing a shirt and his chest and collarbone are dappled with droplets of water. Scully props herself up on one elbow.

“Did you use my soap?” she demands.

“I forgot I bought new soap and didn’t put it in my bag,” he says with a shrug. “Yours smelled better than the stuff that was in there. Don’t worry, I wrapped it in a washcloth. No direct contact with my skin.”

She sighs and snuggles back down into the bed. “I don’t care about that, Mulder. After all we’ve been through, your skin is the least of my worries.”

“Glad to hear it,” he says. “I wouldn’t want my skin to worry you.”

She doesn’t have much to say to that; her mind supplies a sudden vivid image of her skin against Mulder’s. He drifts closer, padding around the room in his bare feet, crouching to retrieve something from his suitcase. Her soap smells spicier on him than it does on her. She sniffs appreciatively. She remembers sampling perfumes with Missy when she was a teenager; on Missy’s wrist, everything took on a more intriguing note, and on hers, they all smelled soapy. 

“I think it’s high time for pie time,” Mulder says, looking up at her with mischievous eyes. “I know I said it was a midnight snack, but I also know you like to go to bed early.”

“I like to go to bed at a reasonable hour like a responsible adult,” she counters.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but this is not a room for responsible adults,” he teases. “Eat pie with me. It’s not going to keep overnight.”

“This is the only motel in fifty miles that doesn’t have a minifridge in every room,” she grumbles. 

“A reasonable hypothesis, Agent Scully,” he said, “but it doesn’t change our situation, which is that this pie is on a countdown and it’s too delicious to waste.” He stands up, absurdly tall from her prone perspective. His skin is always that dusty olive color, even in the winter. It gives him a wild look somehow, like a faun from an old painting. He’s certainly full of temptations tonight. She watches the muscles of his abdomen flex as he turns away and brings the pie back to her.

“May I?” he asks, indicating the edge of the bed. She nods and he sits, opening the box and wafting the scent of the pie toward her. “Come on, Scully. Be an irresponsible adult with me. I know you haven’t brushed your teeth yet.”

She sits up. “I don’t understand why you bought it if you knew it was going to go bad.”

“Some things are worth it,” he tells her. “Even if they have a limited shelf life.”

“Hmm,” she says. The way she’s been feeling lately, it’s hard not to feel like everything he says is wrapped around some deeper meaning. 

“I don’t think they gave me any silverware, though,” he says. “We’ll have to eat with our hands.” There’s a challenge in his eyes. Sometimes she thinks he believes she was delivered to his office in 1992 mint-in-box, as if she was never a child, as if she’s never eaten pie with her fingers or stayed up too late or argued over bunk beds with her siblings. She looks straight at him and dips her finger deep into the whipped cream on top of the pie, still gazing into his eyes as she licks it off.

“Mm,” she says. 

He looks delighted. “I didn’t know you had it in you,” he says.

“There’s a lot in me that you don’t know about,” she says, taking a second fingerful. This time she gets some of the coconut cream filling, and it really is delicious. She savors the flavor of it, her finger in her mouth. It all feels a little like the night she drank wine with Eddie Van Blundht, believing he was Mulder. She hopes to God she’s got the real thing now.

They eat the half pie together, breaking off pieces of the crust, their sticky fingers brushing against each other as they reach into the box, and it’s maybe the best pie she’s ever had. Mulder runs his finger around the tin to gather the last ridge of cream and then offers the finger to her. She hesitates, and then licks the pie from his fingertip. His eyes darken slightly as her teeth scrape gently over his skin. 

“That was delicious,” she says, licking her lips. 

“Thanks for sharing it with me,” Mulder says. He sounds a little hoarse. 

“I suppose I could return the favor,” she says, “if you don’t mind sharing the bottom bunk.”

“I think we can make that work,” he says. 

He throws away the pie box. Scully gets up and digs her floss out of her bag; she’s got coconut bits between her teeth. They brush their teeth, standing at the sink together, and if isn’t the most intimate moment they’ve ever shared, it seems close. At least when she was naked in the ship in Antarctica, she was only half-conscious. Watching her toothpaste foam mingle with his in the sink is unbearably domestic.

They crawl into bed together, Scully first. She stretches out in the shadows under the bunk as Mulder reaches up to retrieve the other pillows and goes to turn out the light. When she’s settled, he eases in next to her.

“I turned up the AC,” he says apologetically. 

“If I get cold, I’ll just take all the covers,” she tells him. 

“Or just cuddle on up and we can spoon like little baby cats,” he teases.

“Did you panic and forget the word kittens?” she asks. 

“Maybe I was just trying to seem weird,” he says.

“You don’t have to try to seem weird,” she tells him.

“That’s true,” he says. 

“I like that about you,” she says. “You’re almost always yourself.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he tells her.

“I intended it as one,” she says.

They’re quiet for a long time. In the dim, she can only see the outline of him, all of the fine details of his face blended into obscurity. Even a few feet away, she can feel the warmth radiating off him. 

“Mulder,” she says, but she knows he’s not asleep.

“Hmm?”

“I have something I’ve been wanting to ask you,” she says.

“Shoot,” he says in the darkness.

“I want to try to have a baby,” she says. “You’re my...there’s nobody else I can imagine asking for that kind of involvement.”

He says nothing for a long moment.

“Mulder?” she says at last.

“Can I think about it?” he asks. “I’m honored, Scully, you know I am, but that’s a big question.”

“Of course,” she says. Her eyes prickle. She turns away, facing the wall, but Mulder reaches out and draws her back against him. He nuzzles against her hair. 

“I’m not saying no,” he whispers. 

“You’re not saying yes,” she says in almost a normal voice. It sounds so loud in the darkness, and she can hear the ache in her chest echoed in her voice. 

“It’s a lot,” he says. “You know it is.”

“I know,” she says.

“I want to be honest with you,” he whispers. “I want to do this right, if we’re going to do it. If we made a decision right this minute, in this bizarre bunk bed in this novelty motel room, that’s what you’d always remember. And if we’re going to do this together, that’s not how I want to start.” He wraps his arm around her. “You mean more than that to me.”

“You’re right,” she says.

“You can cry if you need to,” he tells her. “I’m here. We’re here together.”

She does cry, but only a little. The heat of him lulls her to sleep despite herself. She draws their clasped hands to her chest, kisses his knuckles. He sighs into her hair. 

“Sweet dreams,” he says, and that’s what she has: the three of them, she and Mulder and their child, baking a pie together in a kitchen drenched in syrupy light, joy rising in her unleavened.


End file.
